


this build up inside of me

by taeyomi (buttercream)



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Miscommunication, Past Drug Addiction, Pining, References to Drugs, Rock Stars, other times they're very present, please proceed with caution as the themes are explored throughout the fic, things are vague at times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:47:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28393350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buttercream/pseuds/taeyomi
Summary: Fingers still bandaged from the concert, Ten can feel them rough against the back of his thighs where Johnny’s grip is particularly tight, then flat over his lower back when Johnny pushes his hips down onto the mattress. The build-up never stops, an endless crescendo as Johnny clambers up, chest flush on Ten’s back.
Relationships: Chittaphon Leechaiyapornkul | Ten/Suh Youngho | Johnny
Comments: 28
Kudos: 174





	this build up inside of me

**Author's Note:**

> **CHECK THE WARNINGS!!!** Even though there is nothing graphic, bear in mind that the themes portrayed can be quite triggering. Please, don't move forward if this kind of topic can be disturbing to you.  
> 
> 
> That being said, this is... A snippet into this universe I thought of during a holiday break a few weeks ago and have been pondering over posting or letting it fall into a limbo of never-to-be-posted fics ever since. I'd been listening to a lot of the bands from my teenage years, and a lot of the experiences told by band members in many of the interviews I watched during that period heavily influenced the way I wrote this. The title is from Vermilion, by Slipknot.

This guy’s name is Gray. At least that’s how he asked to be addressed when Kun first brought him over. It’s unlikely that Kun, being the saint that he actually is, knew anything about Gray. He probably didn’t gather much aside from the several recommendations and reasons why he’d be perfect to work with them on this. Indeed, Gray is a great sound engineer, and he’s committed to making the band sound their best in the album. If only he didn’t hold such deadly habits.

Ten isn’t one to judge choices made by other people -- certainly not grown, bearded men with enough years on them to answer for their actions. If Gray means to pump his veins full of nasty shit, who’s Ten to convince him otherwise. That’s what he tells himself over and over as Johnny follows Gray into the empty recording booth. They’ve been taking a break for the past twenty minutes, and most of the guys went out for a much-needed breath of fresh air (the studio reeks of cigarette smoke and the teriyaki sauce someone spilled on the couch earlier). Ten stayed in order to look over some of the tracks with Kun and was surprised to find that Johnny also lagged behind.

Johnny trails after Gray with downcast eyes and hunched shoulders, as if he’s trying to make himself small to the point of not being noticed. The door closes behind him, and due to the lights in the booth being off, Ten doesn’t get a glimpse of what transpires inside. He has a hunch, Johnny’s company being Gray, but one Ten wouldn’t like to entertain. Again, he isn’t one to judge people. Yet, Ten keeps his eyes on the dark window above the controls, wondering how weird it would be if he just… barged in. As one of the founding members of the band, Ten is somewhat entitled to an opinion on stuff their brand new drummer does that might hinder his ability to perform. Kun keeps on making muted commentary on what was recorded before, but Ten can’t really hear anything. There is a single thought looping in his head, hammering into his skull, insisting.

There are six people in this band, and every single one of them knows what it feels like not to hold control over your wants and actions. To have this thick fog clouding your judgment, something that feels too powerful to overthrow, that renders you weak. It’s only been four months since they hired him, but Ten is able to tell that Johnny is clean. He doubts Johnny’s ever taken anything dangerous. Living the kind of life Johnny is about to embark into, though, it’s easy to let yourself be glamoured by all the wrong things. It’s the one thing Ten can’t seem to forgive himself for.

\--

Turns out that Gray did give Johnny something. 

“Sleeping pills,” Johnny explains when Ten demands to know what’s up. “I haven’t been sleeping well and he told me he had these… Pills.”

It’s all too familiar. 

“Don’t take them,” Ten instructs with the sort of authority brought on by repeatedly walking down that same twisted road over the years. Johnny laughs. It’s not a mocking laugh, it’s more like he can’t understand why Ten would say that.

“I need them to sleep,” Johnny reasons.

“Find an alternative,” Ten suggests. There’s a faint hint of desperation in his tone.“A… A nightly routine or something.”

Johnny keeps on frowning. Ten doesn’t think it’s obliviousness; joining a metal band should come with the awareness of blinding oneself against the long list of clichés it offers. Karma Cruel isn’t Johnny’s first gig, he was drumming for a small punk band before Yuta snagged him. Still, as he looks down at Ten, Johnny looks awfully young and terribly clueless.

Ten inwardly curses himself. “You wanna sleep together?”

The seconds following his question are spent in complete silence. He knows how it sounds, and stands his ground when Johnny’s frown deepens.

“Are you propositioning me?”

Rolling his eyes, Ten hopes that the warmth down his neck doesn’t crawl up his face. “No. I’m trying to prevent you from taking sketchy pills from a sketchy dude.”

Johnny tilts his head. “Gray’s sketchy?”

In lieu of an answer, Ten presents Johnny with an open palm, a silent demand that’s met with hesitation. Sighing, Ten urges, “Come on, honey.”

It’s just a tiny plastic bag, less than a handful of pills inside. It’s still sealed, a single staple over the folded opening. Ten exhales, then looks up at Johnny, taking him by his other hand. 

“Come on,” he says, weaving his fingers in between Johnny’s. His hand is big enough to completely engulf Ten’s, cold against his palm. “Let’s flush these motherfuckers.”

\--

Ten didn’t mean to make a routine out of _this_. When he first brought Johnny into his bed he really just meant that they should sleep, in the most basic sense of the word. He thought having another body next to him might have brought Johnny the comfort he needed to have a quiet night of slumber. Ten didn’t imagine he’d end up naked, ass up in the air, Johnny’s teeth on his left cheek.

There’s something to be said about Johnny’s need to have his mouth on Ten, bruising. They’ve been doing this for close to a month -- the tour hasn’t been the only thing progressing faster than expected --, and every single time they fuck, Ten leaves with a dozen new marks on his body. And every damn time Johnny collapses afterward, exhaustion dripping into his mind, and he sleeps.

Right now, though, he’s very much awake. Fingers still bandaged from the concert, Ten can feel them rough against the back of his thighs where Johnny’s grip is particularly tight, then flat over his lower back when Johnny pushes his hips down onto the mattress.

The build-up never stops inside of Ten, an endless crescendo as Johnny clambers up, chest flush on Ten’s back. His teeth now trail from Ten’s shoulders up to his neck, licking at such a maddeningly slow pace that has Ten’s toes curling and hands fisting at the bedsheets. Johnny bites and kisses as if he’s staking a claim -- as if he means for the next person who gets to see Ten lying like this to know he was first. 

Johnny threads his hand into Ten’s hair, pulling his head back. He noses at Ten’s jaw, grunting when Ten pushes his hips back, into the hard cock pressing at the cleft of his ass. It never ends, the feeling of standing at the edge of a precipice with arms wide open, the wind on your face, merciless and welcoming at the same time. Johnny mouths at Ten’s jaw, kissing up to his face, and Ten can smell sweat and cigarette smoke on him. 

An arm wraps around Ten’s middle, palm splayed on his abdomen to lift him from the bed. It’s sudden enough to elicit a gasp from him, the cool air enveloping his poor, neglected cock, which had been trapped between himself and the mattress ever since Johnny ripped off both of their clothes as soon as they came back to the hotel. Ten still doesn’t understand what Johnny wants, pulling him up like this, adjusting their position until they’re both kneeling on the bed. While one of Johnny’s hands feel up Ten’s chest, the other remains firmly rooted in his hair, the occasional tug dragging pitiful noises from Ten.

Pitiful. Sometimes, that’s how Ten feels. At Johnny’s mercy, every single ounce of his being given entirely over to this brick wall of a man, fucking hard to figure out. Ten is never able to guess whatever the hell is going on inside Johnny’s head when they’re not fucking. Even when they’re fucking sometimes he’s left puzzled and apprehensive, unsure. Like now. Ten tries to twist his torso, turn around to catch a glimpse of Johnny’s face, but the arm around him tightens, and he moans in frustration. Then he throws a hand back, reaching for Johnny’s face. He’s granted a couple of seconds before Johnny has it back, holding both of Ten’s wrists in a single hand over Ten’s chest.

It’s infuriating.

Ten whines, head falling back onto Johnny’s shoulder. “Johnny,” he pleads. It never stops building. 

By the time Ten is sitting back on Johnny’s cock, tension is so high on his shoulders that he spills all over himself. There is come dripping down his length. Ten teases his own nipples as Johnny fucks into him, hard and fast enough to tip him over in a matter of seconds. 

It’s funny. Every time they do this, Johnny is trying his damn hardest to keep them at arms-length. Yet, during the minutes that follow his release, it’s almost like his shield goes down. Johnny pants, small puffs of air blown into Ten’s neck, and his mouth presses the gentlest of kisses to Ten’s shoulder. Both of his hands slide down to rub over Ten’s thighs, and his kisses grace every single one of the spots he’s marked earlier. When Ten leans into his touch, Johnny doesn’t pull away. It lasts for about four minutes. And the walls are back up.

Once they’re lying next to each other in bed, Ten picks the hand Johnny’s got resting over his ribcage, still wrapped up in the white tape from earlier. Johnny turns his head on the pillow, watching quietly as Ten inspects his hand, runs his own finger over a single uncovered blister. The tape is already wet and brownish from an hour and half of Johnny gripping drumsticks in his sweaty hands, then another hour of fucking Ten in their hotel room.

Ten moves to unwrap one of the bandages, and Johnny pulls his hand free. He doesn’t meet Ten’s eyes as he says, “Don’t be too kind.”

\--

_... All alone on the edge of… Seventeen…_

Someone’s been blasting Stevie Nicks for hours on end. Ten can’t say for sure who’s responsible, since he’d been asleep until 10 minutes ago when he woke up to a voice that sounds suspiciously like Yuta’s yelling the lyrics somewhere around the house.

Their management secured a three-month rent contract for the luxurious mansion they’re currently inhabiting, hoping that being together twenty-four-seven would enhance their writing abilities and speed up the production of their next album. Yuta, their main lyricist, has been caught in a slump so they’re all giving writing a go. Last night Hendery presented them with a full song about his sister’s childhood pet rabbit. Jungwoo has about six pretty good hooks ready but isn’t confident about any of them. Last night Ten helped him flesh out some ideas and they might have two new songs by the end of the week. 

What Ten finds when he ventures out of his room, though, is nowhere near any of the mental and professional stability they’re trying to convey to the company.

Out in the middle of the empty living room, sitting on one of the big road cases is Hendery, guitar on his lap, feet tapping to the rhythm of Edge of Seventeen as Jungwoo spins around in his underwear. The music is loud enough to deafen the sounds Hendery’s guitar is probably emitting. Yuta was indeed the one singing. He comes from the kitchen, beer can in hand, swinging from side to side. As soon as he catches sight of Ten, Yuta throws both hands in the air, hollering even louder. Ten winces. Stevie sings.

_JUST LIKE THE WHITE-WINGED DOVE SINGS A SONG SOUNDS LIKE SHE’S SINGING…_

Just a glance around is enough to indicate they’ve been at it for hours. The lack of furniture when they moved in was justified by the need for moving around heavy equipment. Since their setup ended up being arranged in the dining room for better acoustics, the living room became some sort of storage, littered with cardboard boxes and huge cases. It is also where they converge to drink and discuss important matters -- sitting on the ground or on top of the cases. This recent development suggests, however, that the living room is also a makeshift dancefloor for half-naked, fucked up rockstars.

Jungwoo is clearly drunk, while Hendery has a cigarette trapped between his lips as he keeps on jamming to the song. Yuta has always had the uncanny ability to look perfectly fine even under the influence of several different alcoholic substances, so Ten can’t say how long he’s been at it.

Here’s the thing. When they decided they’d be clean, nobody even considered also quitting alcohol. It felt like commiserating -- they couldn’t handle the heavy stuff anymore, at least they’d always have a drink or two to hold the fort. Yet, sometimes Ten questions how much safer they are with a beer keg than they’d be with a pocketful of powder. For a minute, he’s unsure of how to proceed. They’re clearly in the middle of something, the three of them. Shutting up Stevie could potentially bring down the mood they’ve been working hard to build, and this particular mood might be what they need to get back to working on those godforsaken songs. Maybe this is what Yuta needs to find his footing again. 

“Hey,” Yuta calls out. Ten almost misses him with how loud the speakers are blasting. “Why the long face?”

Ten looks around once more. “Where are the others?”

“Out getting food.” Yuta dances as he swigs down the bear, hissing. “You sure had a good night of sleep.”

“Did you even sleep?”

“I did,” Yuta says, jerking a chin towards Jungwoo. “Not sure if Woo did, though. We found him at the keyboard this morning, it didn't look good, Tennie. He was freaking out about the songs and deadlines. Kept saying we only have two of them ready for the booth and how he’s not sure we’re gonna get anything else. Jae gave him some painkillers then dragged Johnny out to get food. We put on music and it appears to be working.” Yuta shoots a worried look towards the still swinging Jungwoo, his eyes tightly shut. Ten notices that his hair is damp, beads of sweat trickling down his bare chest. 

One day after another, that’s how they’ve been trying to carry on. 

Before Ten begins processing what all of this means, Jungwoo sways next to him, a dopey smile on his face, the smell of booze and smoke clinging to him as he circles both arms around Ten’s waist.

He sings, “ _Well, then suddenly. There was no one left standing in the hall._ ”

Ten could pull away, reprimand him for not sleeping, not eating properly, letting himself be comforted by alcohol and a detached state of mind. It wouldn’t be of much help. That’s a much-needed conversation for another moment. Now, Ten smiles, hugs Jungwoo back and lets himself be swayed around the room.

\--

When Johnny and Jaehyun come back, Stevie has been replaced by Pat Benatar, and the volume is considerably lower. Hendery has abandoned the guitar in favor of fiddling with Jungwoo’s notebook, Yuta is now playing with his phone, and Ten lies on the floor next to a still half-naked Jungwoo. They’re lying on their sides, faces cushioned by their hands. Jungwoo is retelling a dream he had about their ex-member, Kyungjoon. It involves dinosaurs and flowers, and Ten smiles. 

The rest of their day wastes away like that. It’s a Tuesday, but that lost most of its meaning after they moved in. Ten is used to losing track of time now, to waking up without a single clue of what day of the week they’re currently living, or what time he even went to bed. 

\--

Kissing Johnny doesn’t feel like kissing any of his past conquests, Ten thinks. Maybe due to the fact that Johnny is far from a conquest. They’re bandmates, possibly friends, and have been living together for the past six months as their album brings itself to a drag. The label wanted them to hurry at an impossible pace and ride the momentum of their past, successful release. One of the figureheads even went as far as suggesting that they got songs from listed composers or hired ghostwriters. Ten has never felt more outraged. The bottom line is that they managed to convince upper management that they can’t just regurgitate an entire album that fast, and we’re granted more time. They got an extra five months on the mansion, then, they’re on their own. They’re not to be pressed on deadlines, but on the other hand, no more luxury estate with absolutely no furniture or comfort at all. Ten thinks he can live with that.

So they’ve been living together for six months, and Ten’s been fucking Johnny for more than a year. They have kissed only a handful of times, in the heat of the moment, as they’re both releasing or getting to it. It’s always felt either automatic or instinctual. This time, Ten has the feeling that Johnny actually put some thought on it, which suggests this means something.

It’s already late, they were both helping Jaehyun tune some guitars when Ten went out for a smoke. Johnny followed him in about two minutes. They made small talk, Ten gave him a cigarette, lent him some fire, they smoked in silence for a bit.

Then, out of nowhere, Johnny tosses his smoke and faces Ten.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks resolutely.

Ten blinks, taken aback. He most certainly wasn’t expecting a request like that, not when they’re out here. The bedroom, whomever it belongs to, feels like a comfort zone. The space where they can unravel, be someone else, act differently. Being asked such a question in the second-floor balcony of the house they’ve been sharing with their bandmates, nowhere near a sexual exchange feels odd. Not a bad kind of odd, though.

“You wanna kiss me?” Ten checks, just for good measure.

Johnny nods, taking a step closer. “Would that be okay?”

Would that be okay, he wonders. They’ve been fucking for months and Johnny wants to know if he can kiss Ten. That’s how Ten knows it means something. Does he want it to mean anything, though? The arrangement they’ve got going on is a good one for both of them. Johnny gets his sleep, Ten gets laid. Is this kiss going to act as a gateway for something else?

“Why?” Ten inquires, squinting. He’s aware of his cigarette burning in his hand but is too focused on Johnny to care.

The silence stretches between them for a beat. Johnny shrugs, averting his eyes. “I just want to. It’s fine if you’re not up for it.”

So fucking hard to get Johnny to talk about anything. A brick wall of a man, no door in sight. It’s like he expects others to bluetooth everything out of him. It’s infuriating at times when Ten sees he’s going through something and genuinely wants to help, but has to wrestle his drummer for any information he needs. It really is tiresome.

Heaving a sigh, Ten blows the last of his smoke and beckons Johnny over. “Come here.” And he does so like he can’t wait for it. 

This kiss is the one that doesn’t feel like any of the others. It’s soft, and deep, and it feels like Johnny is trying to pour himself into it in the way his hands cup Ten’s face, and his tongue laps at his lips rather gently. It’s good. Good enough to make Ten’s belly warm and his lungs out of air. He breaks out for a gulp of oxygen, but is quickly back for more, allowing Johnny to pull him closer, tighter. It’s intimate, and the tiny pecks to his cheeks and nose spin Ten out of his axis, as if he’d been wrong about everything, this entire time.

Johnny touches him with ease, like he doesn’t want Ten to crack around the edges. Ten wonders if he’s even deserving of so much care.

They’re soon kissing again, Ten pressing Johnny against the railing, Johnny’s hands firm against his hips. He wouldn’t know what to do if anyone caught them like this, although he’s got a feeling Yuta and Jaehyun know what’s going on. Despite fearing being caught, Ten doesn’t feel like stopping.

However, words he didn’t think he’d ever hear coming from Johnny succeed on making him halt:

“I think I have feelings for you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I swear it doesn't feel like a cliffhanger to me. Be nice, please <3  
> If you want, you can find me [here](http://www.twitter.com/maplemooncake).


End file.
